


> Memory Restart

by kingfisherBlues



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Ashen Romance | Auspistice, CONSUME, Caliginous Romance | Kismesis, Gen, Mind Control, OBEY, Pale Romance | Moirallegiance, Submit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-18
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-08 21:22:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/766154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kingfisherBlues/pseuds/kingfisherBlues
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You exist and your body does not, nor does your life or what proceeded before awareness.  You breathe cold.  You are blank.  Your ears catch the sound of silence.  You taste stillness.</p><p>You take another breath.</p><p>The state of your existence is unsure.</p><p>The room is very white.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Any 'coding' that pops up in here is pretty much complete gibberish derived from actually credible sources and formulated to seem as though the responding program has an intelligence. At least, as much snotty intelligence as the creator managed to force into the system. Which turns out to be a considerable amount.

The room is very white.

The air is chill and pale, each breath stinging along the ghosts of nerves you can't quite feel. For a moment, the state of your constantly rising and falling chest is unsure. Desperate, you gulp down the cold. Your lungs fill. Or, you believe they fill. You release the breath in a shaky gasp; the sound reaches your ears, but your ears don't exist, or you believe that they heard it because that is what they always did, and to do anything else would be unacceptable. 

Your eyes continue to see, yet nothing flickers and the once calming presence of light trapped behind thin eyelids is not to be found. You have eyelids. You are sure of it. You're just not certain where they are. 

You take another breath. 

The state of your existence is unsure. 

The room is very white. 

  

    
    
    >  RUNN1NG 7H5FUCK1NGP4L3M4G7H.sco
    submit [CROCKER, JANE]
         import memoryBank m1
         import memoryBank m2
    ~ diva (m1)  {fond-memory: whack ass alien )(OOFBEAST S)(IT; fond-size: 72 pl; margin-for-error: N3GL1G1BL3}
    	~ diva (m2)  {fond-memory: fuckin something idgaf; fond-size: 72 pl; margin-for-error: K17H5 MY 7H533DFL4P IM B3773R 7H4N 7H17H5}
    } ACTUAT-E (~ diva (JANE) {CROCKER} ACTUAT-E (NULL));
    	} ACTUAT-E (~ diva (CROCKER) {JANE} ACTUAT-E (NULL));
    [CROCKER, JANE] . C-EAS-E ();
    

  
The room is very white. 

Well, not quite, you reflect, alone for the moment and free to scrutinize. Roxy's bedroom may have been white at some point in time, but the years of living in the same room have taken their toll. The carpet is well worn and threadbare along the path between bed, desk, and hall. The walls are little better, scraped and marked at varying heights in what you deduce must be the patterns of idleness. Near the corner where Roxy keeps an abundance of video game consoles -- though you had always heard of it, you were still surprised to see the sheer amount -- there are vague grey footprints marching up the wall. None of them are of the same size. 

You can imagine her, reclining alone in her pile of pillows and stuffed kittens, playing games as she walks her feet up and down the wall and occasionally typing out replies to friends on the laptop computer resting nearby. You cannot imagine her younger, but the sizes aren't congruent with the young woman whom you call friend. She's been doing this for a long time. 

You stand alone in her bedroom and feel a distressing amount of pity. 

Footsteps thump in the hall; you whip the frown on your face into a decent smile and turn towards the door, hands at your sides and empty of any suspicions. The door, left open but a crack, bursts inwards with the momentum of the young woman behind it and bangs against the bed frame. You jump and try to smother a startled laugh; Roxy Lalonde, your best friend and current host of a slumber party, bounds inside the room with a armload of blankets and uncovered pillows. 

"Found the jackpot!" she crows, dumping her load onto the floor. "There's a spare linen closet under the stairs and it was packed so tight a bedbug couldn't help but zonk out. And it doesn't smell too weird either." She grabs at a pillow and buries her face, taking a dramatic whiff. 

You pick up one with slightly more decorum and furtively smell it. The scent is dusty, but otherwise clean. There is a faint odor of salt, which is something you've become used to in her home, though the surrounding woods should have counteracted that. Perhaps her mother leaves something in the linen that gives things such a salty smell. 

For a moment, you are confused, as you do not know of anything that imbues linen with the scent of salt other than salt itself. 

"Janey," Roxy whispers, eyes wide with mischief, "This is going to be so much fucking fun." 

"I wholeheartedly agree," you reply with warmth. Her excitement comforts your confusion; it passes without another thought. "I haven't been to a slumber party since... oh, dear, I've never attended one!" 

"Why not? Didn't you live in kid central out in the 'burbs?" she asks as she begins sorting the linen pile. You kneel to help her, tossing pillows on the bed and messily folding blankets for later use. 

"'Don't you live'," you chide. "Present tense. Grammar, Roxy!" 

The look she gives you is long-suffering and patient. "Still, though. If movies taught me anything, it's that there's like, a shit ton of kids living in those cookie cutter houses and chucking papers at peeps and getting into scraps with their big ol' loyal dogs," she drawls, a brief imitation of a Southerner's sprawling vowels. The two of you share a giggle. 

"No, I never went to other children's houses," you finally answer, folding the last blanket and stacking it on the pile. "My father didn't think it was safe." You cannot remember why, you realize, hands smoothing over the rough fabric of a quilted blanket. A frown tugs at your lips. 

She briefly pauses, balanced on the balls of her bare feet, and shrugs. "Least you're here now," Roxy chirps, smoothing away any doubt with a broad smile. "You've never been to a slumber party, and hey, I never held one, so we're set for all sorts of firsts tonight!" 

She grins at your light laughter, standing to her full height and holding out a hand. You take it with a murmur of thanks and let her pull you to your feet. Both of you are dressed lightly, in pajama bottoms and breezy shirts in honor of the moment; you feel the hairs on your bare arms prickle as the air pops and a grey wine bottle appears in Roxy's free hand. 

"Want to smash it?" she offers, holding out the bottle neck first. "Let's christen this noise!" 

You take the finely wrought bottle and roll it against the rough pads of your fingers. It is heavy and solid in your grasp, but the bottle paradoxically gives off the faint hum of electricity, as it is a captchalogue construct. You are unsure if smashing the bottle would keep it's very realistic qualities from harming others. 

"Wouldn't doing so get glass everywhere?" you nervously ask. 

Roxy laughs and rolls her eyes, flicking a wrist dismissively. "Nah, it's totally safe! Just smash that shit and boom! Goodies everywhere, party's on, babes bouncing, everything's awesome." 

You hesitate. Roxy shuffles closer and grasps your free hand tight, taking the bottle from you. "Here," she says with a sweet smile. "Let me show you." 

She winds up her arm and pitches the bottle against the ceiling above your heads. 

You flinch and scream, arm upheld against the shower of glass to follow. The bottle shatters with a sound like a distant lightening crack. Roxy crows laughter. 

You're still cowering when the first flakes of brightly colored confetti tease along your arms and float to the floor. You try to glance up, but bits of paper tangle in your hair and catch on the lens of your glasses, obscuring your vision. You swipe them off and swear under your breath. The room is an explosion of confetti, there isn't a single scrap of glass to be had, and Roxy is still laughing. 

For a moment, you are angry. But anger gives way to the fear that's still pricking tears in the corners of your eyes and running your heart ragged; you snatch your hand back from her and hiss, _"Roxy."_

She ceases laughing in an instant. 

"Roxy, that wasn't funny," you try to assert, but your voice cracks in the wake of shock and you cover your mouth with one hand, afraid to say anything further. You know her -- you _know_ her -- but that doesn't distract from the fear that spiked, bright and hot, in the face of imagined danger. 

For a moment, Roxy looks wounded; fear spikes again that you may have hurt her in some subtle way, but before you can panic, she shuffles forward and gently presses her forehead against yours. Bits of confetti stuck on locks of her hair prick at your cheeks. You ignore the slight discomfort for embarrassment, as Roxy carefully takes your hand from your mouth and presses a kiss to your knuckles, dark painted lips featherlight. 

"Hey, now," she murmurs, close in the still air of her room. "I'd never hurt you, Janey, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to scare you." 

She kisses your knuckles again, comforting and reverent, and something light flutters in your chest along with embarrassment. You avert your eyes from hers and take a small step back, but you keep your hand in hers. It's calming. 

"I know," you state. It's all you can answer. 

Her grin is bright and familiar; she kisses your cheek in apology and dances away, kicking a pile of blankets over towards her gaming corner. "Whew!" she enunciates, dramatic to cast out the stillness. "I am forgiven, once again! And next time you can smash the bottle. I'll even let you crack one over my head as punishment, it doesn't hurt, I swear." Roxy pauses, casting a look of mirthful conspiracy over her shoulder. "At least, only if there isn't anything big inside." 

"Tell me you haven't!" you gasp, infected with her cheer. 

Roxy's grins are familiar to you, as are her small, secret smiles. "You got it, boss," she purrs. 

You cannot help but laugh, relaxing in the close quarters of her room. Roxy finishes expanding her gaming pile and the two of you settle down in comfort. More bottles pop free of her modus and she rolls them towards you to break as she powers up her strange television and pops a movie into the disc player. You haven't seen a TV like this before. It's flat with a heavy border like the frame of a painting; the upper section is divided into four squares by three lengths of metal. It must be some top of the line stuff, you muse, perhaps developed by her mother. 

Roxy's mother is a scientist. Or, no, an author that dabbles in scientific pursuits. You forget precisely what she does. Or what she even looks like. But she greeted you at the door. You are sure of it. 

"You going to smash those open or what?" Roxy asks, nudging at your shoulder, and you forget in favor of hefting a bottle in hand. A convoluted menu screen opens across the bottom of the television. Roxy presses play; you gently smack the bottle against the floor. 

It cracks as though in spite of your timid knock, spilling an array of chips and sweets across the floor. Roxy fetches up a bottle of her own and cracks it over her knee. Bottles of soda and lemonade spill into her lap; she offers you a pink lemonade, smiling bright. You take it with thanks and settle back. 

The movie is dull and uninteresting. It is far more pleasant to lie beside your friend and share jokes and gossip, chatting about everything and nothing. You note everything about her, your shrewd practical eye well versed in seeing things when they try to be hidden. Roxy doesn't even make it a challenge, as she relaxes fully in your presence and let's you take note. 

Roxy rakes a hand through her hair when she huffs over something silly Jake or Dirk has done. She leans back and stretches her legs lazily when she mocks some tired trope of the movie. Her eyelids flutter as she breathes in, her head leaning against your shoulder. She leans her head against your shoulder often, shared snacks nestled between your hip and hers. It's a comfortable gesture, one that gives you a surge of pity and protectiveness. She's your friend, and she invited you to her room -- her home -- and you would be lying if you didn't say you were fond of her. 

"I'm fond of you, too," Roxy teases in her lilting way, one that you know to be sincere. "Even if you pick on me too much." 

"I do not pick on you!" you protest. "You're just eating too many sweets, dear, and I know you haven't had a proper meal today. You're going to make yourself sick." 

She pushes the snacks out of the way and scoots closer to your side. "Well, you're just going to have to show me that fabled baking skill of yours, won't you," she counters with a grin. 

"Someone has to," you grumble. "You're far too--" 

You stop before the sentence can formulate. Roxy is propping herself up by one hand, leaning over you, and you can see the sallow shade of her skin and the prominent marks of her collarbones with suddenly clarity. She is not too thin. She is utterly malnourished, subsisting on bare bones and stubbornness that you know she uses as a shield against unpleasantness. You reach out both hands and cup her face, overwhelmed by the need to protect her. 

"I'd like that," Roxy whispers, her familiar defenses dwindling as she leans into your palm. 

You lean into each other at the same time. 

Roxy kisses you with reverence, and you know that she's afraid to shatter you just as much as you are afraid to hurt her. You gather her into your arms as she sighs, soft and sweet, and you stroke a hand against her cheek just to hear that noise again. She melts against you, calm and open, mouth moving to trace the lines of your face and neck, memorizing you. You move to accommodate her, your own fingers marking the ridges of her spine and the dips between her ribs. She giggles just once, the sound muffled by your throat. 

"Pale for you," Roxy mumbles, chest rumbling with a faint purr. Her eyelashes tickle at your skin, the sensation faint. 

"Pale for you," you return by rote, nose buried in her faintly salty hair but eyes free to watch the movie unfolding across the screen. It's a scene you are familiar with, one where Ron Swanson settles into an all-night diner alone and demands an order of all the bacon and eggs the diner has. You are familiar with it because you've watched it several times, each moment laughing anew, because it's not a movie, it's from a favored show, because you never really liked watching movies -- 

The fake construct of Roxy Lalonde stiffens in your arms the moment you realize she isn't real. 

"No, no, shush, stay here with me," she begins to plead as you push her away. "Please, Janey, I love you so much, just stay here with me a little longer--" 

"Roxy would never kiss me!" you shout, scrambling free of the pile. The wall in front of you pixellates and begins to dissolve. "She was too afraid to kiss me when I was dying, and she _sure as shit would never kiss me now!"_

"No, honey, I'm so pale for you, just stay with me," she begs, but the previously defined lines of her face begin to blur. 

You pick up a grey bottle and throw it against the wall. Roxy flinches and tries to voice a soundless scream. 

It punches through the dream with nary a whisper. 

_"Roxy lives in the_ ocean," you scream, your voice tearing ragged on a throat you can no longer feel. _"She lives in the ocean and her whole house smells like salt and her mother is_ dead, _she's_ dead, _you battered old witch, because you killed her, and we stayed at her home and played games and she never kissed me because she wouldn't dare, even if I wanted her to, and FUCK YOU FOR MAKING ME SEE THIS!"_

The construct of your friend is silently wailing, the world dissolving around her. The gesture is so pained that you want to fall to your knees and gather her malnourished and scrawny body into your arms again, as though you could keep out the ills of the world simply through force of will. 

You sway on feet that you aren't sure are there, and Roxy reaches out, imploring. 

**No.**

She cannot speak, but you can hear. 

**I will not be denied.**

This is not your friend, and this is certainly not your moirail, as the word is foreign and of no consequence to you. 

**OBEY.**

You shut your eyes and the room is very white. 

  

    
    
    > 3RR0R.diva
    > 3RR0R.diva
    > 3RR0R.diva
    > 3RR0R.diva
        --> import 3RR0R.diva report
        --> i sea you waitin around
        --> gimme dat report sooner not later less you wanna be poked full a new holes
    > 1NC0MP4T1BL3 1N73RF47HC3
        --> incompatible interfish my fine ass
        --> NOW YOU DUMB )(-ELMSBAIT
    >  R3P0R7 C0MP1L1NG T0 PL347H53 7H3 F17H5Y 3MPR37H55
    >  7H5FUCK1NGP4L3M4G7H3RR0R.rpt
    >  C0MP1L3D
       --> thats better
       --> run the second one and make it stick
       --> tone down the fond-size:ah and integrate aH{S C O: bcCORP}
       --> if it dont work this time imma take it outta yo ass
    >  THUCKTHS YOULL HAVE TO KITHSS IT FIRTHST
       --> you got shit to say
    >  1NC0MP4T1BL3 1N73RF17HSH
    >  RUNN1NG G3747H5H1771NGP1L3.sco
    


	2. Chapter 2


    >  RUNN1NG G3747H5H1771NGP1L3.sco
    submit [CROCKER, JANE]
         import memoryBank m1
         import memoryBank m2
    ~ diva (m1)  {fond-memory: whiney ass wigglers; fond-size: 48 ah; margin-for-error: 1NC0N7H53QU3N714L; aH{S C O: bcCORP}}
    	~ diva (m2)  {fond-memory: shit best get hauled in reel soon; fond-size: 96 ah; margin-for-error: 7H5H175 477PH3N 47H5 FUCK; aH{S C O: bcCORP}}
    } ACTUAT-E (~ diva (JANE) {CROCKER} ACTUAT-E (NULL));
    	} ACTUAT-E (~ diva (CROCKER) {JANE} ACTUAT-E (NULL));
    [CROCKER, JANE] . C-EAS-E ();
    

The lightening flashes blinding white.

The thunder that follows is a strange counterpoint to the squeak of rubber on tiles behind you as your friend Dirk Strider paces the kitchen floor, heralded by muddy prints and splashes of water. You let him in your home a scarce fifteen minutes before and he hasn't stopped dripping rainwater since. If he were here, your father would be upset about the mess, but you hope he would forgive you both for the household slight. 

You are under the distinct impression that Dirk is out of his mind with worry. 

"He hasn't called, hasn't texted, hasn't even left a single message for three days," Dirk mutters to himself. You combine measured amounts of sugar, eggs, and vanilla in a mixing bowl and know that he's dragging rough fingers through hair still wet from the rain. "Shit. You think he'd try to be a little considerate and let his boyfriend know where he is, you know?" 

You hum agreement and fetch a saucepan from the stove; with shaking hands, you upend it over the mixing bowl and add melted butter to the beginnings of cookie dough. It's one of your favorite recipes for comfort, as the process of mixing it is all that keeps you from turning around and beating Dirk senseless with a spoon. 

"God, I'm so sick of him pulling this bullshit! He just disappears for days and days and he never says a damn word!" Dirk growls to the cold kitchen. He finishes his circuit at the fridge and turns with a squeak, just a flicker of movement at the corner of your eye. 

"He never tells us where he is," you lightly mention, stirring the ingredients forcefully. You measure out a cup of flour and lose half of it across the counter. 

Dirk comes to a stop in front of the doorway to the living room, smearing mud across the white tiles. "Jane, you should know better than anyone that this is bad news," he says with measured calm. You add the rest of the dry ingredients to the dough. "Remember when he didn't show up to your birthday party? I found him in the next city over five days later trying to chat up an old folk's home." 

Your fist tightens around the handle of the spoon as you beat the dough into sticky perfection. You do not want to remember your birthday party. It exists in the same level of unpleasantness as mud on the floors that would upset your father, though he isn't home. But you don't need to remember the party to know that Jake's disappearance is of his own volition. Since he and Dirk have begun dating, what few conversations Jake has had with you have mostly turned towards complaining about Dirk and little else. You can happily say that he has yet to bother you this time, but Dirk showing up at your door in the middle of a thunderstorm is an ill omen. 

"I don't know what to tell you," you say over your shoulder, hand firm on the edge of the bowl as you continue to beat the dough. "I have not seen hide nor hair of the boy for ages." 

He swears under his breath; you pull out two baking sheets from a cabinet and begin dropping rounded balls of dough into neat rows despite your shaking hands. You are sorely tempted to whack Dirk just once across the knuckles -- as you are well aware of how much a wooden spoon can hurt -- but as satisfying the gesture would be, it would not help anything. You are not much one to gossip, but even you know what a messy relationship the two have. Jake running off into the wild in the face of Dirk's overbearing nature is not news. 

Dirk rakes his fingers through his drying hair once more, shuffling closer to your work space. "Well, shit," he sighs. "I had a hunch he might have been talking to you, but -- shit. That theory is bust. Roxy hasn't heard anything from him either." 

"When did you talk to her?" you ask, confused, as you finish filling the baking sheets. You had spoken to Roxy online just a few hours before. She had not mentioned anything about Jake's current disappearance or his paramour's annoying search. 

"Just this morning," Dirk answers with a shrug. He takes one long step towards the oven and opens the door, letting out a wave of heated air. "I asked her if she could get a trace on Jake's phone. Girl's got skill, even better than me, but she couldn't find jack squat." 

You balance the baking sheets in both hands and try to remember what breathing was. "You did _what._ " 

Dirk frowns, pushing his dumb pointy sunglasses further up his nose. "The oven is cooling. You going to pop those suckers in or what?" 

You stare at him a moment longer, protective fury coursing through your limbs. 

"You bothered Roxy about your stupid boyfriend?" you hiss, shoving past him and slamming the baking sheets into the oven. They squeal on the heated metal of the racks; you don't give the sound a moment to fade before you slam the door closed, the oven shaking with the force. 

Dirk steps back carefully, rubber-soled shoes silent. "I'll reiterate," he says warily. "She's the only one better than me at tracing signals, provided that the source is intact. If you have a better idea of how to find him, then don't keep it to yourself." 

"Why don't you try keeping it to your own self for once!" you cry out, snatching a timer from the counter and twisting the dial to a precise eleven minutes. You slam it back down and wince at the crunch of plastic. 

Damn it all to hell. You broke another one. 

"I'll make you a better one," Dirk offers blandly, palms out, shoulders relaxed. "Just as soon as you tell me what your problem is." 

"My problem?" you repeat, voice rasping in your throat. "My problem is that you are a control freak, Dirk! You have no business getting Roxy to do your dirty work and tracing your boyfriend, when you know damn well that this is the very reason he's out there doing who knows what!" 

"Roxy offered to help," Dirk states, his voice brittle and brow tightening with irritation. "I fail to see how taking her up on that offer paints me the villain here." 

You issue a sharp noise of frustration, throwing up your hands in disbelief. Dirk flinches backwards, chin tucked into his chest defensively, and you nearly scream. 

"Do know how often Jake pesters me about you?" you hiss, jabbing a finger in his direction. "Every time he's gone and no one can get a hold of him, I wake up to a wall of text on my computer, just complaining about you. And frankly? I agree with all of it! You're too controlling, you want to know where he is all the time, and he just talks, talks, talk, and I'm sick of it! He bothered me on my--" 

You choke on your words, because to remember is on the same level as Dad's disappointment, and anger tightens in the line of Dirk's shoulders before you can recall how Jake forgot. 

"Maybe you should tell him to relay all of his issues to me, if you're so tired of hearing them," Dirk suggests snidely, stepping forward again. The handle of a spoon is in your hand before you realize it. You sorely want to bend him over your knee and wallop him until he screams mercy and sees sense, but it would not be effective without showing Jake the same treatment. 

"I would tell him as much," you say quietly, doing your best to loosen your grip on the spoon. "Except you're just as bad." 

"How the hell am I as bad? I don't bother you like that," he scoffs. 

"Look at where you are right now, Dirk." 

The kitchen is silent as Dirk pauses, standing in a field of white tile and muddy shoe prints. 

"Oh." 

The timer chimes, the bell ringing strangely on the cracked plastic of the casing. Dirk moves backwards the same moment you move forward; you snatch up oven mitts and open the oven door, pulling out both trays of finished cookies. You set the trays on the counter to cool. Behind you, Dirk quietly shuts the oven and leans against the fridge. You've known him too long to see it as a sign of nonchalance; it's a gesture of panic on par with screaming. 

You step silently around the kitchen, fetching a plate and spatula. While you had started with the intention of baking something sweet as a means of comfort, the cold shame in your stomach in the wake of anger is staunchly opposed to the notion. Dirk looks little better. 

"What the hell am I supposed to do?" he mumbles, rubbing at his eyes underneath his sunglasses. 

You carefully begin moving the cookies from the baking sheets to the plate. "Maybe," you suggest quietly in the hope that your voice does not crack, "It would be best if you obtained a mediator." 

Childhood drawings clipped to the fridge rustle under Dirk's shifting weight. "What do you mean by that, Crocker?" 

You continue to move the cookies, stomach pressed against the juncture of the corner section of counter. "You have your problems," you admit gently, "But Jake is not entirely blameless in this affair. Both of you complain to me when unwilling to speak to the other, so perhaps it would be best if I were a bit closer to things. Just to shed an outsider's opinion on the matter." 

The plate full, you set the spatula down and turn to face him, embarrassment heating the tips of your ears. You cannot tell where Dirk's eyes have settled behind his sunglasses, but his eyebrows are level and his mouth is an impassive straight line. That alone tells you nothing. All of his interest is contained in the careful press of his hip against the fridge. 

"What would you know about our relationship?" Dirk drawls, slowly thrusting his hands into the back pockets of his jeans. 

You lean back against the counter, taking off your glasses in order to clean them on the hem of your shirt. "He tells me more than you realize," you say with forced disinterest. "Much of it unprompted and all of it personal." 

Lines of green-text spring unbidden to the forefront of your mind. Jake was far too willing to tell you the details of his romantic life. Including how Dirk is a terrible kisser. 

"I am not a terrible kisser," he protests, an edge of irritation in his voice. 

"According to Jake, you are," you smoothly retort, putting on your glasses once more. You hesitate a bare moment, before adding, "You use far too much tongue." 

"I do not," Dirk replies. He hasn't shifted an inch and his tone is one of pure challenge. "I use precisely the right amount of tongue. Your sources are gravely misinformed." 

You lift your shoulders in the barest shrug. "It's only what he told me." 

Dirk shoves away from the fridge and walks forward, hands in his pockets and face deceptively neutral. He pauses a few inches away; you resolutely keep your place, the small of your back pressed against the edge of the counter and face upturned towards his. Dirk might favor his displays of dominant aggression, but you are more stubborn. You can outlast him. 

He shrugs, a perfect mimic of your own. "Might as well nut up or shut up." 

You have a moment to roll your eyes before he crosses the scant distance and presses his lips against yours. 

It's not quite a kiss. His hands stay in his pockets and you curl yours around the counter's edge, not touching except for the barest press of your mouths. This close, you can see his eyes behind his sunglasses; they are firmly closed, eyebrows drawn down in concentration. The combination of his determination and hesitation has a laugh bubbling in your throat. 

"Hey, at least I'm trying here," he murmurs against your mouth, eyelashes twitching. 

You wonder if he's ever initiated any sort of physical affection without severe forethought. Jake must be out of his mind if his chosen matesprit is so needy in attention and yet so unwilling to reciprocate. 

Dirk snarls low in his chest and presses closer, the bridge of his sunglasses scraping against yours as he kisses you fully. You part your lips and press back against him with a challenging growl. The two of you vie for dominance in minute shifts of pressure, nipping at each others' lips and exchanging soft kisses, hands still carefully contained. Dirk finally cedes control and steps back, face flushed. Yours is little better, judging by the heat of your cheeks, but you smile in triumph. 

"There," he says levelly, ignoring your grin. "I'm great at kissing. Jake doesn't know what he's talking about." 

You flex your grip on the counter's edge and shrug. "My opinion will be withheld until I can properly assess his technique," you tell him lightly, eyebrows arched, and Dirk looks at you over his sunglasses, pupils blown wide. 

"I'd like to see that," he admits, and you pull him back by the collar of his shirt. 

Only now do you touch with hands; you take up fistfuls of his hair and tug gently to warn of punishment as he grips the back of your thighs and lifts you onto the counter, capturing your mouth with a needy whine of protest. In lieu of a third to press against, you lean back against the tiled wall above the counter, dragging Dirk along with mouth and hand. He follows eagerly, leaning into the cage of your legs and baring his throat. You bite the juncture of neck and shoulder and he whines again, even as he kisses your shoulder and runs his fingers over your clothed spine, acquiescing. 

The sounds Dirk makes as you assert your authority are pleasant, but you want the stereo, not the solo, and you both feel the soreness at the lack of your third leaf. To compensate, Dirk hauls your hips to his stomach and keens against your neck, fingers digging into your side as you mark him with the intent of discipline. He pants with each bite and matching kiss, hot puffs of air just beyond your ear that are barely audible underneath the sound of rain. He is yours to command, to rein in when he's being overbearing, just as you'll force Jake to sit down and listen. 

You'll keep them both in line. 

"Could you handle both of us, Crocker?" Dirk pants; you feel his teeth press against your collar bone in a grin, suspiciously close to biting. "He's more of a handful than you realize." 

In response, you haul his head back by the roots of his hair and kiss him fiercely, just short of drawing blood. Dirk hums into your open mouth, arms tights around your waist, and if he's willing to listen, then you can keep the both of them stable. Jake will fall in line and follow your lead, just as the rain pours in soothing curtains across the world outside, though no raindrops course down the panes of the kitchen window, as it does not fall from the sky but from large colorful balloons filled with helium -- 

You shove back against the wall, knocking aside the quickly decaying plate of forgotten cookies. The false construct of Dirk Strider doesn't move; his unfeeling hands rest on your thighs, clad in leather and dead pixels as the program begins to fall apart. 

"I've seen some shitty porn in my day," he drawls, voice crackling, "But it's my first time starring in one." 

He starts screaming the same moment you plant one foot against his chest and kick him away. 

The counter vanishes and you fall to the uneven floor, landing hard because you expected to, and scramble to your feet, the imagined pain fading as soon as it appeared as all of it was fake, because -- 

"Like hell he'd let me tell them what to do when all he wanted was to bundle Jake up and keep him for himself!" you scream into the kitchen that used to be a sanctuary, composed of false images and old memories. " _Dirk never wanted anyone in his own head, he couldn't escape_ himself, _and even if he did --_ " 

"Jane, take it off, take it off--" 

The construct of your friend is losing itself into the decaying mass of the program; one hand is already gone, the other scrabbling along the floor as it's face splits and heaves. You can't feel your body anymore. You're not sure if it ever existed. But you feel your screams as the image of your friend doubles and collapses, it's screams echoing in your own. 

_"Take it off, take it off, Jane, take it off, it'll keep happening, and I can't--"_

**No.**

"Fuck, _Jane --_ " 

He still has a voice, Roxy didn't have a voice as she -- it -- it was false, just an image, and it didn't have a voice as it screamed for you to stay -- 

**OBEY.**

You don't know what an auspistice is, you don't know why it wants you here, and you don't give a shit, because you want _OUT_ \-- 

**SUBMIT.**

You fall through existence and the light is blinding white. 
    
    
    > ERROR.diva
    > ERROR.diva
        --> dont even PR-ET-END like i dont know about this bottom sucking deal you trynta pull here
        --> how da fuq did that one fail you piece a shit scrap heap
    > G3747H5H1771NGP1L33RR0R.rpt
        --> awright all im gettin out a dis shit is that you aint doin what i fuckin told you to do
    > 70N3D D0WN fondsize: ah 4ND 1N73GR473D aH{S C O: bcCORP}
    > R37HUL7H5 1N H1GH3R T0L3R3N7H53 F0R 7H07H14L C0N7H5RUC75
    > 4L75H0 R37H5UL7H5 1N C4747H5PR0PH1C 1N57L4B1L17Y 0F 7H54M3 7H057H14L C0N575HRU75
        --> holy S)(IT i did not get a fuckin word out a dat
        --> why da fuq you gotta type so stupid
    > 1NC0MP4T1BL3 1N73RF17HSH
        --> stop it
    > 1NC0MP4T1BL3 1N73RF17HSH
    > no no_stop please im sorry it hurtssssss
        --> was that so fucking hard shrimp
    > 4NY7H1NG T0 PL3475H3 7H3 F1695HY 3MPR37H53
       --> shut up and run the next one
    > h3h33H333H33 H3H
    > RUNN1NG P17CHA697H5PR0N.sco
    


	3. Chapter 3


    > RUNN1NG P17CHA697H5PR0N.sco
    submit [CROCKER, JANE]
         import memoryBank m1
         import memoryBank m2
    ~ diva (m1)  {fond-memory: haha shes lost as shit; fond-size: 36 ph; margin-for-error: 1NC0N7H53QU3NCH714LLY PL4U7H51BL3 ; aH{S C O: bcCORP}}
    	~ diva (m2)  {fond-memory: how has she not done this yet; fond-size: 33 Ph; margin-for-error: FUCKC YOUR MARGINTHS; aH{S C O: bcCORP}}
    } ACTUAT-E (~ diva (JANE) {CROCKER} ACTUAT-E (NULL));
    	} ACTUAT-E (~ diva (CROCKER) {JANE} ACTUAT-E (NULL));
    [CROCKER, JANE] . C-EAS-E ();
    

  


The mid-afternoon sun is a bright and searing white.

You stand with a hand upraised against its rays, though that does nothing to alleviate the muggy heat that pervades the entire English property. Since making the trek from Jake's empty home to the foot of the ruins nearby, you have been sweating ceaselessly. The exertion itself does not trouble you; the heat in addition to the rising worry as you failed to locate your friend is enough to make you sweat bullets. 

Your mouth twitches into a tight smile. If Jake were here, no doubt he would make that observation and rattle off a round of cringe-worthy jokes. 

The thought only serves to exacerbate your frustration that he is not here and you have failed to locate him so far. 

A borrowed PDA pings from your modus; you eject it and snatch it out of the air with a practiced grab and tap at the touchscreen with one thumb, reading through the newest slew of messages. Most of them are from your friend Dirk Strider -- you ignore his self-indulgent ramblings as he tries not to freak out -- while a few are from your other friend Roxy Lalonde, asking for a status report. 

\-- tipsyGnostalgic [TG] began pestering gutsyGumshoe [GG] \--  
TG: hey janey you got anythin new 4 me?  
TG: tho idk what im expectin  
TG: its only been thirty minuts since we talked and u havent said poo yet  
TG: i guess what im askin is if youve found him???  
TG: plz say yes  
GG: I'm sorry to disappoint you, but I haven't, dear.  
TG: oh nooooooo  
TG: nnoooooooooh gdi  
TG: there goes di stri again all fillin up my screen i mean godDAMN  
TG: omg hes going to freakin explode if we dont get ahold of that kid soon  
TG: hey janey?  
GG: Yes?  
TG: if jakes alive when you find him, please kill him 4 us  
GG: Rest assured, that thought is in the forefront in my mind!  
GG: I'll alert you to any new developments as they occur.  
GG: Go attend to Mr. Strider before he worries himself to death.  
TG: ok ok i will  
TG: and jane  
TG: thanks  
TG: not even thx, you get a whole thank you n youre the best and seriously i < > u bunches k  
GG: Hoo hoo! Did you mean "<3"? :B  
TG: yah sure that 2  
TG: u and ur cutey little quotes omfg <3  
TG: but ok im goin to go do ma thing  
GG: I wish you luck on your chosen task, Roxy.  
TG: good luck to u 2 jane  
TG: uuuuugggh were gonna need it  
\-- tipsyGnostalgic [TG] began pestering gutsyGumshoe [GG] \--  


You close the conversation, thoroughly disheartened and troubled. The last news bit of news you had relayed to her was that all of Jake's various computing devices were accounted for, including the PDA you had taken for you own temporary use. Roxy knew about each of his computers -- having done quite a bit of programming on his behalf -- but it was harder to trace a man's signal when he wasn't there to send it. 

You hesitate, eyes scanning the wavering horizon, and pull up a background window, displaying the last message you received from the man in question. 

\-- golgothasTerror [GT] opened memo on board *FRIENDLY SHENANIGANS*.  
GT: I may have made myself an incredibly shitty bed here and now face the prospect of lying in it!  
GT: Not to say that this is going to be in any way as pleasant as seeking respite at the end of a long evening.  
GT: Actually i might be in some true danger but theres naught to do but face it with head upraised.  
GT: Dont fret too hard as i will regale you all with the tale later.  
GT: I am definitely going to make it out of this alive.  
\-- golgothasTerror [GT] ceased responding to the memo.  


That was five days ago. Neither you, nor Roxy, nor Dirk have been able to contact him since. 

The unusual message prefacing a usual absence was enough to lead you to your current location, standing in the hot sun at the base of the ruins that you know him likely to frequent, given his adventuring tendencies. You had been coerced to go on the search for him -- as you were closest, you recall, nodding sagely at your own revelation. Your other two friends, though worried, were otherwise occupied. You do not remember to specify why as you turn and peer up the steep steps that lead to the entrance of the ruins. 

The ruins are several stories high, capped by a statue of a giant amphibian and composed of a dark green stone that feels sharp but gritty from exposure under your fingertips. You're not entirely sure why they are called 'ruins' when they stand with a measured solidity that only comes about from a sound construction. You chalk it up to Jake's influence and gaze out at the ring of towers that circle the main temple. They are shorter than the building itself, and yet still loom large in your suburban-raised eyes. 

There are eight towers standing about the temple -- putting to mind eight sentinels, silently waiting -- while a lone guardian makes its own orbit in the distance. The image is vaguely unsettling; nervousness gurgles in your stomach and you pat it absentmindedly. 

You shake your head to clear it of useless thoughts and turn back to the temple. The sight is daunting, but the promise of the cool shade above bids you to take the first step. You slip the PDA back into your sylladex, briefly check it for emergency supplies packed before the search, and begin to climb. 

Halfway up, your calves and thighs are burning from the unusual height of the risers and your breathing is labored. You sit on the next step and expel a bottle of water from your modus, exposed skin feeling hot and dry. At this rate, no amount of sunscreen is going to save you from being fried to a crisp. You sweat it off nearly as soon as it's applied. 

Irritation -- at Jake, at worry for him, at the hot sun and the tall ruins that you must search, at Jake again -- surges to a boil. You crack the bottle open and take a long drink, hoping to physically soothe your emotional distress. 

Roxy's suggestion was a fair one. If Jake is alive when you find him, you're going to thrash him for ever making his friends worry. 

As you drink and gaze out over the horizon -- the elevation provides a new view, and the towers do not seem quite as unnerving as before -- you begin to hum an idle ditty to alleviate the solitude. It changes into syllabic refrains that might have be song lyrics you heard once or twice. You sing into the open air, the wind cooling the sweat on your face and carrying the sound of an answering song. 

The realization that someone is singing with you catches up a beat later. You twist on the step and peer up into Jake English's beaming face. 

_"Hullo, Jane!"_ he calls out with a wave, standing at the top of the stairs and looking quite real and ambulatory. His eyeglasses flash in the sunlight; you cannot see his face from this distance, but you can guess that he's grinning. "What are you doing up here?" 

For a moment, you cannot speak. 

"When you're done lounging about the steps, join me in the shade, will you?" Jake shouts down, already disappearing into the depths of the temple. You stand abruptly, swaying dangerously on the edge of the stairs. 

"Jake, wait!" you call out -- but he's gone. 

Cursing under your breath, you captchalogue your water bottle and continue on the journey to the top of the ruins. 

You're definitely going to kill him. 

Once you finally reach the top, you are out of breath and your shirt sticks uncomfortably to your back. The entrance of the ruins is awash with sunlight, but it extends only a few dozen paces in before succumbing to gloom. Your eyes struggle to adjust; you hear rather than see Jake step forward, face hidden and scabbed knees exposed to the light. 

"That took you long enough," he chides. You bristle, mouth snapping open to reply, but he railroads over you a cheerful laugh. "But since you're here now, how about you lend a shoulder and help me shift this door?" 

Jake steps back into the gloom. You follow, the darkness resolving itself into shapes. Hieroglyphs and pictures you don't understand cover every inch of wall, though you do recognize a repeating shape similar to the statue that caps the ruins. It looks a bit like a frog; you run a fingertip along one such chiseled picture, the stone bone-chillingly cold to your heated skin. 

"Jane!" Jake sings out; you jump and turn towards the noise. "I'll take you on a tour later, but at the moment, I need your assistance with this door!" 

"Jake," you start, purpose renewed, and walk deeper into the temple. "Where have you been?" 

"Here, of course," he replies with a flippant wag of his fingers. "This damned thing has been resisting all attempts to move it, but I will not be deterred!" 

The door in question is huge -- it easily towers over Jake, and you feel diminutive in comparison -- and the dark wood is carved with more strange hieroglyphs. Jake turns to you when you reach him, eyes alight with excitement. 

"I've never been able to shift it before, but with you here to assist me, we can get this horse to finally drink," he says with a broad smile. You find yourself smiling back in reply, infected with his natural cheer, but your next thought smashes it into a frown. 

"Jake, where have you been?" you enunciate slowly. 

"Here," he repeats, taking on a patronizing tone. "In the temple. It's much cooler than outside, wouldn't you say? Hot as hellfire and sticky to boot, not my idea of a pleasant environ at all." 

You shake your head, sweat-slicked tendrils of hair sticking to your face. "Have you been here the entire time?" 

"No, only a few hours," he answers, crouching in front of the door and running his hands over the smaller carved decorative pieces at the bottom. "I retreated to the ruins and decided to make some good use of my time, though I wish I could read this, the intricacy is amazing!" 

"Retreat?" you echo, irritation at Jake -- and relief from finding him -- quickly spiking into alarm. "Retreat from what? And why? Jake, we haven't heard from you since--" 

"Retreat is a poor word to use," he interrupts, tracing an indecipherable line of writing. "Consider it a calculated withdrawal to regather my resources." He issues a small grunt and leans closer. "Do you suppose we could decode this with the combination of both our noggins? You're a smart cookie and I've a few crumbs myself, surely we could manage." 

You do not give a damn about any stupid writing in a stupid temple or the stupid boy that wants to read it. You're close to throttling him. 

_"Mr. English,"_ you snap, "Do you not realize how long it has been?" 

"Been?" 

"Yes! Since you messaged us!" 

"I message you all the time, Jane, you'll have to be more specific," Jake says with infuriating calm, bouncing on the balls of his feet and wrapping his arms around his knees. The gesture pulls his sleeves further up his arms, exposing hastily wrapped bandages and bruised skin, and you are kneeling on the stone floor beside him in a moment, anger momentarily overridden by concern. 

"What happened?" you manage to ask, grabbing for his left arm; he winces and you draw back, fingers hovering indecisively. 

With a sigh, he plops down onto his rear and allows you to examine his arms, eyes rolling dismissively. "It's nothing really," Jake says in a firm tone. "I just took a bit of a tumble out of a tree. It's par for the field around here, more bark than bite, although it was mostly the bark that did the damage, as a tree can't exactly bite me. Well. The beast at the bottom could have, but he was gone by the time I fell out." 

At this rate, you'll turn into a parrot, but that doesn't stop you from repeating, "The beast?" 

"Some manner of predatory thing," he answers with a shrug. "It chased me, treed me, and left me to figure out the best way down." He laughs, shoulders shaking in humor. "I didn't find the best way, but it was certainly the most effective." 

You forgo your initial instinct to exclaim over this news and instead roll his sleeves to the elbow. His left arm is sloppily bandaged, the ties falling loose, and he bears several irritated scratches, presumably from his alleged fall. Most of them are shallow, but they have the raw pink look of being picked on and allowed to re-heal. Sighing in exasperation, you begin untying the winding bandage and eject a First Aid kit from your modus. It bounces off his knee and strikes the floor. 

"And when did this happen?" you ask, tone carefully free of inflection. 

He looks up at the ceiling, eyes unfocused in thought. "A few days ago, perhaps?" 

Your teeth grind, but your hands are steady as you pull the last of the bandage away. Jake winces again, as the cloth had stuck to dried blood in the center of a large abrasion covering the inside of his forearm. "And what were you doing before that?" you ask his arm. If you look at the boy it belongs to, you might give in to the temptation to box his ears. 

"I was exploring the southern arm of the island, of course. I told you before I started out," Jake answers accusingly. 

"No, you didn't, Jake," you say with growing annoyance. You examine the abrasion for infection even as you open the First Aid kit and pull out hand disinfectant. Much to your relief, the wound seems to be healing well. But in an effort to be thorough, you clean your hands and set to treating and bandaging Jake's arms. 

After a few moments of silence, you blurt, "Have you been exploring this entire time?" 

Jake jumps, jostling the bottle of hydrogen peroxide in your hand; a few drops spill onto shallow abrasions on his palm and he hisses in discomfort. You look at him, impatient for an answer; he shakes his head. 

"My mistake, I was sure that I told you. Perhaps I was talking to Roxy instead." 

You slap down a sterile gauze patch with barely restrained force and begin winding a fresh bandage around his arm. You're more than aware that he had imparted his exploratory intentions to Roxy, as that was all she could talk about when she and Dirk had messaged you with pleas to search for Jake. She was positive that he had been eaten by animals, or fallen to his death, or drowned in a puddle, or any other terrible end to life that she could think of. She had been frantic. And though you would never admit it, you had been a little frantic as well. Your last conversation with Jake had not ended on a very good note, though you can't remember exactly what was said. 

Jake admires your work as you pack away the kit, throwing it and the soiled bandages into your sylladex. 

"Now that that's dealt with, let's shift this old thing," Jake says, rolling his sleeves back into place and nodding towards the unyielding door. 

Your duty towards his safety fulfilled, you give free rein to your anger. 

"We're doing no such thing," you stress, hands clenched into shaking fists as you stand. "I was _worried_ , Jake. We all were! You haven't spoken to any of us for nearly a damn week!" 

"I haven't?" he echoes, rolling to his feet. "Sorry about that, chum, you know how these sort of things slip the old cranium." He taps his temple with a small laugh, dismissing your fears with that single gesture, and turns back to contemplating the stupid door. 

You're going to set it on fire. You're going to set _him_ on fire. 

"I never pegged you for one that would give in to those sort of dramatics," Jake says with a roll of his eyes; his smile barely wavers, as though he could charm away the your indignation. "Really, Jane, it was only a few days and I'm perfectly fine. A little banged up and around, sure, but it's nothing that I can't handle." 

"You said that you were in trouble," you croak, repressed rage caught painfully in your throat. "Five days ago." 

"And I do apologize for any consternation caused on my part, but as you can plainly see, I'm fine, and there's something exciting behind this, I can tell, so let's move it already and find out what it is," he rattles off, bouncing on the spot and pushing ineffectively on the carved surface of the door. 

"We're not going to do that," you say, your tone clipped in a failed attempt to remain calm. Your hands hurt; you relax and flex your fingers, the indentations of fingernails left on your palms burning in the sudden release of pressure. "Jake, we have to go back to the house and message our friends. _You_ have to message them." 

Jake glances over his shoulder, mouth twitching in a quizzical frown. "I'm all for conversing with comrades, Jane, but I'm busy at the moment. Can't it wait until later?" 

Your patience snaps. 

You kick him solidly in the rear. 

Jake crashes forward against the door with a yelp, smacking his face against a carving of a lizard and falling over. "Shitknickers!" he shouts, rolling to his knees and swiping off his glasses in a vicious gesture. "Kringlefucking Christ, Jane, that wasn't sporting at all!" 

His voice is thick with pain; he leans forward, pinching his nose, and glares at you with surprised rage. Thick blood seeps from between his fingers and drips from his palm; you revel with vicious glee in the sight. At the moment, nothing short of death would be too much for him. Perhaps if you beat him around the head enough, he'd actually pull it out of his ass. 

"Now you're just being mean," he petulantly accuses, smearing blood across his cheek in an effort to keep his mouth clear of the offending fluid. 

"You're being a jackass," you tell him stoutly. "I was worried sick over you, because the last message you sent me near a week ago was a damned 'goodbye', you idiot. And when I actually find you, _you're trying to go on a fucking adventure?_ " 

The temple echoes with the force of your yelling. You take a step back, embarrassment flaming in your cheeks. You had thought yourself better than needless yelling. But, then, you had come here with the intention of discovering Jake's whereabouts and ended up kicking him in the ass. 

Jake snorts and spits out a wad of phlegm and blood; you recoil, offended by the crude gesture, and he flashes a brief smile at your discomfort. 

"Let's just calm down a moment and talk this over before slinging around petty insults," he says in what you imagine is supposed to be a soothing tone, but it's nasal from his abused nose and only serves to anger you further. "Are you really that upset that I haven't spoken to you recently?" 

You can't hit him again -- not when he's kneeling on the floor, unbloodied palm turned up in a gesture of peace -- but you can turn and kick at the door repeatedly, taking out your anger and frustration on the solid wood. It bears the abuse well; your foot aches by the third blow, while the door barely trembles under the force of your onslaught. 

Jake watches with wide eyes, slowly getting to his feet, still pinching his nose. When you turn back to him, you're breathing heavy, but you feel less like killing him. Instead, you choose to shout. 

"You dense, inconsiderate ass," you start, voice reverberating among the carved pictures of the high ceiling. "Are you really so daft that you can't imagine why a message sent days ago saying you're about to fucking die might send your friends into a frenzy? The only reason that they're not here at the moment is because Roxy was trying to keep Dirk from tearing everything apart--" 

You stutter on the thought, caught between a surge of jealousy and confusion as to what Dirk would have destroyed. You were closest to Jake's home. He had asked you to check on him. You remember that much, but the sudden revulsion at the thought of Roxy comforting Dirk has left you speechless. 

"I didn't realize it had been as long as you say. Sorry about that," Jake says with a halfhearted shrug. "Really, I am. But if you were so concerned about my whereabouts, why didn't you contact me earlier? It seems like I'm calling upon you most often lately." 

Framed by the entrance of the temple, the sun dips closer to the horizon. You had arrived when it was still fresh in the sky; it had taken nearly the whole day to find Jake. You have been awake for far longer than is healthy, fielding questions from a frantic Dirk and an equally panicked Roxy as you searched through the considerable acres of Jake's home. You had found traces of his recent passage -- but nothing indicating whether he was still alive -- and fought off your own rising levels of fear in the face of his absence, and he asks why you didn't contact him earlier? 

You have been living in suspense for five days, though you are loathe to admit it, and Jake has been spending that time gallivanting around on one of his stupid adventures. 

In your fury, you shove him. He stumbles, barely keeping his balance. 

"You are the most inconsiderate, self-absorbed, and idiotic boy I've ever had the displeasure of meeting," you hiss. "Why don't you do us all a favor and grow the hell up?" 

His shock at your assault fades. It's quickly replaced by anger. 

"If you had an issue with me, why didn't you say so before?" he snaps irritably, mouth framed by drying blood. "I know I can be forgetful and thoughtless on occasion, I'll be the first to admit that--" 

You interrupt with a loud, ugly laugh. He flinches at the sound and glares, face and ears coloring with rage. 

"Really, Jane, if you're going to be so hurtful when I'm trying to talk to you, perhaps the issue isn't in my corner at all," he growls, tucking his chin against his chest. Your fists clench at his defensive gesture, but the thought of Jake actively seeking out the thoughts of others still has you in the throes of mirth. It's tinged with bitterness and scorn, but it's amusing all the same. 

"As amusing as looking for a missing friend in a false show of concern and breaking his nose?" Jake says archly, tapping gingerly at his swollen nose. 

Your face nearly flames with heat. "Shut up." 

"Now hold the phone," he continues in that same self-satisfied, infuriating tone. "You don't get to yell about my bad qualities and then get offended when I mention your own!" 

"Shut. Up," you breathe, leaning forward, fists shaking. 

"You have such a temper, Jane, and in hindsight, it's a wonder that you've managed to hide it for so long!" he says, stepping forward at the same time. He's within striking distance now, but you stay your hand. 

He relishes a good fight or scuffle on occasion -- he might even be pressing you into it now -- but you won't give him the satisfaction, because you're better than that. 

"No, you're not," he replies calmly. "You're just a coward." 

You're not sure who throws the first hit. All you know is that your fist connects with his sternum in the same moment pain explodes against your shoulder; you spin away, arms raised defensively, as Jake stumbles back, clutching at his chest and gasping. 

"Cheap shot," he pants. _"Coward."_

"Takes one to know one," you taunt, circling on light feet. "You run away the instant things get a little bit too difficult." 

"Then we're a pair, aren't we, as you never fucking acknowledge it!" Jake replies, taking up a boxing stance so laughably old-fashioned that you feel a fit of derisive giggles threatening to burst free. "Because really, are you here for your own magnanimous impulses, or is it out of spite?" 

You scoff, even though the slight burns at your ears. You wouldn't have come without the influence of friends, and even then, their obvious infatuation with Jake English grated upon your nerves. For an idiot, he certainly has enough admirers. It nearly makes you sick. 

"You should have told me how you felt earlier," Jake says with a vicious grin. He flings a few practice punches into the air. "Never let it be said that I would decline a good round of grappling against someone who was asking for it so desperately." 

That makes you pause even as your blood boils. 

"Are you challenging me?" you ask, eyes narrowed in suspicion. 

In reply, he only rolls his shoulders and widens his stance. 

You don't waste time informing him of his stupidity. You launch forward, gambling on a brief period of surprise. You're pleasantly overjoyed when he meets you with the same level of eagerness. 

Despite all his earlier stumbling, Jake is good in a true scuffle. The two of you spar with efficiency at first, learning each others limits. He shrugs off your hits and tries to get under your guard with admirable tenacity; you strike his side and dart out of reach, exchanging blow for blow and avoiding the brunt of attack. You're wary of his superior strength; should he engages you any closer, you'll surely lose. 

Your attempts to make a fair fight are for naught. Jake drops to the floor as you swing; for a brief moment, you are surprised. Then he sweeps out one leg and knocks you down. 

You hit the floor, scraping your palms against stone; Jake rolls over and throws a bent leg over yours, preventing any retaliating kicks, and grabs at your wrists. 

You struggle in vain. You're strong, but so is he, and he has more weight to put behind his strength. 

"That wasn't very _sporting_ for a fist fight," you grit out, fingers clenching in rage as you try to shove him off. 

He grunts at your effort. "Neither is kicking a man when his back is turned, Janey. Tit for tat and all." 

"Shut up," you snarl, and turn to bite his damaged arm. He screeches in pain; you grin as best you can with a mouthful of arm and bandages. You don't give a damn if you're hurting him further, as you have reached the end of your rope and now drop eagerly into the black abyss of wrecking his shit as much as you can. He's an idiot -- he's always been an idiot -- and you're going to scream until he recognizes what a selfish, good-looking, blithering asshole he really is. 

"Well, shucks buster," he grits out in an attempt to save face. "You're not too bad yourself." 

His hands loosen on your wrists. You slip free and tangle your hands into his hair the same moment he moves to straddle you fully. 

Jake grunts when you kiss him, broken nose pressed painfully against your cheek, but he doesn't pull away. You dig your nails into his thighs and wrestle to move him onto his back, scrambling for purchase on the stone floor as he fights against the change of position. He's strong, but so are you; breaking the kiss, you dump him on his ass and bite his shoulder, pressing him back against the floor. 

He briefly cedes defeat with a moan, tugging painfully on the ends of your hair and wrapping his legs around your waist, drumming his heels against your back. His boots _hurt_. You leave off biting to chew him out anew, only to be surprised by Jake grabbing your face and kissing you with a single minded ferocity that you admire. He's thoughtless and selfish. He knows his goal and he obtains it. 

You have no room for coordinating conjugations. Jake is a lot of horrible and admirable things, with no 'but' or 'yet' to excuse any of them. 

"Nitpicking fuddy duddy," he groans against your mouth. You plant your knees behind his thighs and pull him into your lap, elevating his back uncomfortably above the floor. 

"Asinine addle-pate," you snarl, digging your nails into his hips, and he trills in challenge, pressing his booted heels against your rear. 

The temple echoes with soft pants and harsh growls whenever a painful mark is made. You are determined to leave him as many bruises as he inflicts on you, as you couldn't stand for anything less. You have spent far too much time catering to Jake's self-indulgent prattling, his forgetfulness and insecurities. He can go fall in a ditch for all you care, but only if you're there to see it. 

In the meantime, you'll take all your frustration out of his ass. 

Jake's next growl is nearly predatory. 

The two of you resume struggling for superiority. He tries to roll you over, but his own legs get in the way, and you pin him in place at the shoulder as you bite and tear and growl. His answering calls are enough to convince you to keep going, harsh clicks and buzzes issuing from deep in his throat as he searches for the hem of your shirt, but the sound seems a little off, just a bit wrong, as that's not a sound you should be hearing from a human throat in the first place, especially not Jake's, because you've never so much as held his hand, let alone engaged him with any romantic intent -- 

You freeze in place, bowed over the still form of Jake English's false image. 

You are a coward. He had come forward, once, with suggestion of romance, but you had rejected it in fear. 

The false construct groans in defeat, head rolling back on his shoulders unnaturally. "Shit, and we were just getting to the good part!" 

You rear back and scramble away, wiping at your face and arms as you struggle not to weep. The false image of your friend sits up to watch in gleeful interest, a split tongue darting out to touch the tip of his nose as the temple shimmers and begins to break down. 

It hadn't been real, none of it, as you had ascended to the ruin's temple on a search for Jake while you played the Game, shit, _The Game_ , but you hadn't found him, just traces of where he had been, and the fear was nearly overwhelming at the time, but that's past and you're going to scream -- 

"Oh, don't start up with that again, Janey!" the thing wearing Jake's face booms, momentarily imitating his voice. It breaks into crackling laughter; he flickers to his feet, the bones under his skin shifting. 

THS3RI0USH57LY if you thstart screaming again i just might join you

You can't feel your body any more, but you try to reflexively flinch at the electronic hiss of whatever speaks directly into your ear. 

The temple, the temple is nearly gone, dissolving into that white room that you dread with every fiber of your being, but the image of the not-Jake is still clear and strong. 

if anyone haths the RigHHTT T0 fUCK1N 7H5CR34M itths uths but it hurtt22 5o please dont

"What the hell are you," you question; the shock at the sound of your own voice ripples in concentric waves. The not-Jake rocks back on his heels at the force, teeth sharp and bright in his playful grin. 

"Janey, don't you recognize me?" he says in mock surprise, disdain dripping from his faintly hissing words. "We've spoken so many fucking times before, and again, again, and again again -- THSHIT--" 

The world flexes -- resolves -- bends -- your stomach gives a warning lurch of protest against the sight, and you have a brief moment of unbridled joy that you can still be nauseous. 

IT7HS D1FF1CUL7 BU7 I C4N D0 1T though we dONt have long

"I don't hate him," you waver, closing your eyes against the unnatural sound. 

ADN I DONT 75H17FUCK1GN C4R3 becauthse GU3TH55 WH4T we dont have LONG

You want to vomit. "Let me go." 

"She wants you to stay," it answers. 

7H3 PR1N7H5C3 H3 70LD Y0U WH47 Y0U N33D 70 D0 J4N3Y

"You're not real, are you?" 

N0P3 JU7H57 D34D 4ND 699999R3D 7H50 H0W B0U7 Y0U 74K3 7H47 UGLY 47H55 714R4 0FF

"Are you the one making me see these things?" 

Y0UR3 N0T 4 BULG357HUCK1NG 1D10T 7H0 L37H5 N0T PL4Y PR373ND G4M37H5 F0R 47H5H03L57H H3R3

"If you have harmed my friends in any way, I will kill you." 

H3H33H3 H3H3 H3H3H444H  
200ooOO L473 F0R 7H47 J4N3Y  
Y0U 4LR34DY D0N3 D1D HUR7 7H3M Y0UR7H53LF

**No.**

71M37H5 UP!!!

**SUBMIT.**

B3773R LUCK N37X7 R0UND Y0U N17P1CK1NG FUDDY DUDYD G4M3 BR34K3R

**CONSUME.**

You use your last conscious breath to scream. 

**OBEY.**

  

    
    
    > 3RR0R.diva
        --> AYO S)(RIMP
        --> )(OW COM-E -EV-ERY CODDAMN TIM-E I TURN ROUND
        --> YO PI-ECE A SHIT PROGRAM BR-EAKS
    > P17CHA697H5PR0N3RR0R.rpt
        --> nah this aint even CLOS-E to answerin ma question
        --> youre supposed to be keepin her under
    > 1 4M
        --> T)(-EN WHY DA FUCK SH-E K-EEP BR-EAKIN OUT
    > 75H3S BR34K1NG 1MM3R77H510N N07 7H3 PR0GR4M
    > 57H3S 4 FUCK1NG 4L13N WH47 7H3 7H517 D0 Y0U W4N7 FR0M M3
    > 7H3Y W0RK D1FF3R3N7 4ND 1 D0N 7 H4V3 7H3
    > WH47 4R3 Y0U D01NG
    > N0
    > N0 NO N0N 00NO ONOOOO0AA
    > aaaaaa no please_dont please stop no im sorry
    > aaaaaaaaaimso sorry please_stop stop ti_sitop stop
        --> i dont care what you got or what you dont got
        --> you gonna write up a fuckin SC)(OOL a new .divas
        --> and you gonna make it fuckin WORK
    > pppffffttttheHEH33H33
    > 4NY7H1NG 70 PL5347H53 7H3 F1695HY 3MPR37H53
        --> fuckin rank ass program
        --> fuckin bottomfeedin rank ass helmsman makin you a program
    > BULG375HW33Z1NG N00KWH1FF1N )(EL7H5MM4N DY1N 0N Y0U 4ND L34V1N M3 4 PR0GR4M
    > no nonoimsorryno plesase
        --> shut da fuck up and run the next one
    > RAILTHSWITHPAILTHS.sco
    

  


You are crying. Roxy pets your face with soothing hands, humming under her breath.

"Shush, Janey, I'm here." 

You can't remember why you are crying, but her arms are strong around you and the pile is soft. 

"Shush, I'm here, it's okay." 

She pulls you close and you go willingly, fitting against her frame like you were made for each other. 

Her lips ghost along the shell of your ear and you relax, eyes fluttering closed. 

"It's okay." 

Her smile is a brilliant, soothing white.


End file.
